


The Magic Against Sorrow

by littlemandragora



Category: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood Drinking, Clumsy Regis, F/M, Gen, Guilty Regis, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Plot Crossover, Romance, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, also canon related, nothingwillstopmefromwritingsmutnowHA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-29 14:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17809433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemandragora/pseuds/littlemandragora
Summary: 'I can make you potions that once imbibe,' said the witch, ' will make you stronger than a wild bull, aid you in mastering the world's secrets, or bless you with the charm to win over all the maidens you desire. Choose wisely."'I wish for none you metioned above.' Answered the raven-haired young man.'Then what would you have?' challenged the witch.'I would have the magic to take away my sorrow.'A young, anxiety-ridden Regis, falls in love with a free-spirited vampiress. Despite their apparent differences, the pair embark on an emotional journey full of surprises after being drawn to each other for some reasons they can’t fully understand. Or remember.





	1. Can You Step Into the Same River Twice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/457163) by Charlie Kaufman, Pierre Bismuth, Michel Gondry. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lover's passion. A new beginning? Or is it something else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before Valentine’s Day I went to review one of my favorite romance (ha romance hahahah) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), this fanfic idea came to me in a combination of my love for that movie, [an AU fanfic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11822844/chapters/26678985)featuring some rework of several witcher book tales into a modern love story of Yen and Geralt <3\. 
> 
> This story will take the perspective from our poor cinnamon roll Regis as the carousing youngster he said himself to be, explores what could have happened between him and his ex-lover “Queen of the Night.” My name for her is Lusina Mircalla Justina de Basarab, pieced together in homage to Lucy Tepes from Castlevania, Carmilla/Mircalla from Le Fanu’s Carmilla (1872), and wife of the historical Dracula sts, also inspired by [kaeltale’s beautiful fanfic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16954254). Her appearance in my head canon is less like the witcher 1 character and more like Carmilla from [Castlevania S2](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a33739d0105335b728d1124ca648495b/tumblr_phebb50xXP1r4apf0o4_250.gif) (without the bleeding malice oc)
> 
> A few other things:  
> Dettlaff will have some cameo in this fic;  
> I selectively use game canon materials when it fits the story, such as Toussiant is the first place vampires came across when they arrived at the Continent, Regis & Dettlaff belong to the same tribe Gharasham;  
> Karlo and Angelus are two silly names I made up for Regis' cryptmates
> 
> Oh, and as I put in the tag, there will be smut ⁄(⁄ ⁄·⁄ω⁄·⁄ ⁄)⁄

 

 

 

 

> _How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!_
> 
> _The world forgetting, by the world forgot._
> 
> _Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!_
> 
> _Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd_
> 
>               Alexander Pope, _Eloisa to Abelard_

 

 

He felt the hardened dampness of the cave wall as he buried his fingers into her silver locks. Pausing, he let a strange wave of some distant familiarity wash him over, and inhaled deeply...

    ...The sweetness of morning dew and the yellowing page of tomes. And….. a hint of brass? He breathed in again and the scent hit him like a gale, uprooting something from the crevasse of his memory; something cherished, something remarkable. What was it?

    Wild with want and an answer, he searched in the depth of her gaze. 

    She had large, aquamarine eyes, blue like the sky of a summer day in Toussaint. Right now, something was burning in those eyes, and the fervor was contagious. He felt the fire spreading out in his whole body, and concentrated on somewhere particular. She must have felt it too; she let him know that by her hands. He bit down a groan and she giggled, her voice was pleasant, like the singsong of an golden oriole.

    He felt his feature change in response to her touch, his sharp fingers aching to slash open the layers of fabric that separated her from him and claim what was his. But she stopped him and cupped his face, lifting it so he could look at hers, now also restored with its feral beauty.

    “Emiel…” She began.

    “Regis.” He interrupted. Hoping he didn’t come off as brutish in their first night together, he added on hurriedly, “I’d like you to call me Regis. If you would.”

    “Regis.” She dragged her fingers across his face and tugged at a strand of his hair, almost as long as hers, only with the opposite color. He felt the warmth of her body emanating from her as she slowly pressed in closer, without a making a sound. The lustrous fabric of her snow-white gown complemented the silver curls very well and he had liked that since the very moment he placed his eyes on her eariler tonight.

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

She was walking, no, gliding, over the moss-covered stone slabs by the lakeside. Fireflies danced around the frills of her dress, and she danced with them, tapping her bare feet along a cheerful little tune. He was simply mesmerized. 

     As she turned around to face him, he saw tears in her huge blue eyes and was stunned, both by the sight of her beauty and by her display of sadness; so unguarded, so freely shared.

    “Listen,” He asked, clear with boyish confidence first, but he heard his own voice dwindled into a whisper as it formed a question. A question somehow he felt he should know the answer to.

    “Have we met before?”

    Have they? There was crispy laughter ringing around him. Lovers’ chuckles? Exchanges of vows? Promises of passions? Somewhere behind the trees came the sound of sighs and gasps, somewhere in the lake waterdrops splashed around accompanying merrymaking. The sounds jerked a primal memory inside him and made his body react. He shook his head lightly and quickly, searched for the source of his excitement. And embarrassment.

    He found none. There was nobody behind the trees nor in the lake. Only orioles, bright yellow with black wings, shuffling from tree to tree.

    “I beg your pardon?” She spoke to him, wiping her tears away in a decisive swoop and smiled, not hiding her delicate fangs.

    He knew she was one of his own by the scent from afar; it’s partly why he came over, the night’s young and he just had a few drinks, girls seemed less and less unapproachable with each drop of blood he guzzled in.

    But also because he liked this place. It’s his favorite spot for a reason he couldn’t rightfully remember now. Just a voice in his head, telling him that this is _the_ place, where something magical would happen.

    A full moon hung in midair, so maybe it’s the mysterious gravity pull that calls from their homeland? Or perhaps it’s simply the blood he had drunk earlier, in the celebration of this full brilliance of moonlight.

    He had learned that some humans called tonight’s full moon the Hunter’s Moon, “ ’cause, you know, apparently it’s _human’s_ hunting season right now.” He laughed so hard when one of his good-for-nothing cryptmates Karlo relayed his findings to the party, almost sputtered blood all over his shirt – not that he’d mind, in the state he was in. Dettlaff had been chiding him with his worried eyes for a while then; two, or perhaps three drinks ago? The hell with him. Always trying to play “the voice of reason.” Tonight, tonight was a special occasion. He shan’t let anyone guilt him away from enjoying himself; not even Dettlaff.

    He cleared his throat, walked towards her, curtsied, and proffered a hand.

    “May I?”

    She responded, instead of taking up his arm as protocol dictates, by holding his hand in a firm grip. And she didn't let go.

 _How odd._ He thought.  _Such an intimate gesture, yet it feels so natural_. _Like we are already lovers_.

    “I’ve been waiting for you.” She said. And he was a little taken aback.

    Was that a jest? A trap? One of those stupid games Karlo and Angelus often set him up to? He observed her from the side, and she just looked, well, lost. Lost, but happy; happy with a secret. She looked back and their gaze met, he retreated automatically.

_Fool! Coward! How are you supposed to meet anyone new if you can’t even make eye contact? You deserve yourself. Truly._

    She chuckled and squeezed his hand gently. “Relax. I mean, I heard your footsteps a while ago. What took you so long?”

    “I was... a little distracted. By the view.” _Ah, fool, fool, fool._

    “Yes, I suppose you would be. It is pretty…… Peaceful, yet has some true seductive quality, especially in a night like this. I’m not sure why. Suppose it’s the golden orioles? Their songs remind me of something precious lost to me.” Her face changed, and she turned to her side. “It’s my favorite spot.”

    “What are the odds!” He couldn’t suppress a toothy grin. “It’s mine, too.”

    She pushed against his body playfully. “Quit fooling around, silver tongue. I’ve never seen you here before.”

    “I say nothing but the truth! I swear to the full moon.”

    “Ha! You said you swear to the full moon! I guess that means we are married!”

    "I guess so?" He wasn't sure what to say and replied meekly, but when he looked up, she wasn't looking at him. 

    She was laughing, heartily, infectiously, her melodious voice rang like a bell. He watched in wonder as she held his arm up, just high enough to fit in a few full-fledged swirls. A rush of scents assaulted his nose and he had a feeling that they demanded his full attention, once and always.

    Mossy dew, age-old books, and a thin whiff of metal.

    He smiled. Was there ever a stranger combination than that? Yet it smelled just right. Like how it’s always supposed to be.

    He closed his eyes to take in the scents deeper and opened them hastily again, afraid that she might be gone, afraid that this was just a dream, too good to be true ( _why would someone nice be interested in you anyway?_ ). He can't risk of wasting even one second of opportunity to drown his eyes in her visage.

    She was dressed in a flowy white gown made of taffetas, off-shoulder, showing off her pale slender neck and her perfect silver curls. The sight alone made his breath hitch with want.

    What to do? If only someone would tell him what to do.

    “Do you live somewhere nearby?” She asked.

    “Yes! But no, no, actually, not really close. I mean, I don’t live somewhere _nearby_ nearby, but it’s not too far if you want to—if you don’t mind taking a stroll, that is -- I’ve got a few scrolls in my collection, I’d like to, I’d be honored to show you. If you are interested.”

    He had to catch his breath when he finally stopped the rumbling.

_Why must I always be so awkward? I’m hopeless, aren’t I?_

    She laughed out so hard he thought he heard the orioles had stopped singing. Or maybe it was his heartbeat instead? He was sure he had just made a fool of himself and all’s lost.

    But she wasn’t laughing at him. Signs of gloom and confusion no longer lingered in her eyes, now she radiated with happiness, and the happiness was contagious too; somehow everything about her was contagious. Her mood lit up everything his catlike eyes could already see in the dark and made them shin ever brighter under the moonlight.

    And it turned out that his educated guess about books was on point: she gladly took up his invitation and confessed that she was, “ _hmm, a bibliophile, so to speak_.”

    Like him. The voice that guided him here was right. Something magical was happening here.   

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

    While his vision sozzled in the brilliance of her image, he felt another dryness in his throat ( _Already? You are hopeless_ ) and his thought involuntarily wafted to the bottle he had preserved in his crypt. Maybe she’d like a drink too?

    He certainly would.  

    He saw himself when they passed by the pond close up. Their reflections in the water seemed stranger than the mixture of her fragrance to his eyes: she was the exact opposite of him; he had black eyes, black hair, his black tunic was ruffled on the edges and a bit blood-stained by the collar, and she…

    She was a streak of shining moonlight. She was spotless, gentle, calm, at ease with herself and her surroundings. She was full of joy. She was luminous. Like a promise to restore everything to its rightful place, to light up the darkness which engulfed that thing they called life.

    To restore him too, maybe? To bring him out from the shadows?

    He dared to hope. And in hope he found her.

    They got back to his crypt and found his precious collection of scrolls were scattered across the floor. In the corner, the bottle of blood he stored was smashed to pieces.

    The scent was old. He didn't remember wrecking all these havoc in the room. What happened? Could have been Angelus. _That asshole_. But no matter. He wasn't too bothered, as it turned out to be a good opportunity for "breaking the ice," so to speak, the two of them had a laugh and she helped him reshelved the books. A few times, he could have sworn he felt her gentle caresses on his arm when they stood side by side in front of the shelf, but he dared not to look. 

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

She uttered his name again and pulled him back into the moment, the tiny pointy ends of her teeth flashed against the candle lights in his crypt. The sight and hearing his name spoken by her stirred a strange masculine pride from the pit of his abdomen; he felt _desire_ , stronger than ever. He realized he was being desired.

    Being, desired. By her. 

    The feeling of a encroaching closeness suffocated him and brought a tightening to his chest. He could no longer wait, he wanted that sensation, both strange and somehow familiar, to crush him until he stopped existing as himself. Stupefied, prideful, hiding his loneliness, fear, and humiliation behind constant drunkenness.  

    He stormed in to claim her mouth, and closed his eyes. He let his instinct guide him, let the memory of his fingers speak to her body, and bathed his ears in the divine truths let out from her unpainted lips, polished only with desire, the unquenching blaze of passion. He welcomed the flame, he let himself be consumed, by the baptism of fire, which he hoped would burn away his insecurity, would cleanse him from his incessant craving, would bring forth a rebirth after the ashes of the past was swept away.

 

When she finally writhed and turned while the heat bloomed in their center, he lost the control of his own rhythm and quickened his pace with commanding long thrusts. He felt her nails digging into his shoulder blades with such zeal, like she’s trying so desperately to seize the rocking wave they both started to lose themselves in. With one last push, holding onto her, he released himself into her depth.

    Bodies pressed against each other, he panted her name on her lips:

    “Carmilla.”

 


	2. Ode to Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A night to remember"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood drinking. "Merciless." Drinking from children and pregnant women. 
> 
> This had been a chapter a bit hard on me emotionally. We all know the goodie and caring doctor Regis had a troubled young-adulthood; how "troubled" was it? What could he have done that made him seek what Fringilla Vigo called "expiation"?  
> It's also hard because I'm writing from a human's perspective, but involving dialogues from the vamps talking about, human blood, like it's really just alcoholic drinks. Also talking about human like they're cattles. From their perspectives, maybe rightfully so. But still sends shivers to my spines :s
> 
> Also made a few small changes in the first chapter and added a detail.

Later, much later, tales were told of that night, during which hell-spawns crawled onto the earth by the vile magic of witches, who coupled with them after their diabolical feast, laughing together in the face of humanity.

    That, of course, was not the truth. Most said hell-spawns would likely to sneer at the innuendos of mating with humans, and no amount of human magic could be worked to summon them. But the laughing and coupling afterward did happen occasionally, one could only blame, so to speak, “the influence.” And the feast, which was more of a wine-tasting, happened in a small settlement later called Rioux-Cannes Outpost. By the time it happened, it was still commonly known as Caed Olóige, by the elven tounge, it means “Grove of Olives.”

                                                                                                    ***

The cats were among the first to notice. Something was hiding in the forest. Waiting. 

    Nobody paid attention to them aside from the only child on the settlement. Well, soon-to-be the second, as the belly of that young woodcutter’s wife indicated.

    “Look! How yellow their teeth are! Eek! Why do they open their mouth and hiss so?” shouted the girl to the adults around her. There were eight of them, and currently in a heady conversation about the treacherous nature of elves and how to fend off their evil spells using waybread.  

    It was a late evening, just after the traditional feast that marked the end of Velen, everyone was enjoying the fresh night air in the courtyard.

    Everyone, aside from the young woodcutter’s father-in-law, Ottis, who was also a woodcutter. He went to lie down early. Years of woodcutting has left its mark on the old woodcutter’s back, and deprived him much joy of almost anything, even the simple pleasure of smoking a joint after dinner.

 _Smoking is bad for your health they say_ , he thought, _bah, what nonsense. I’ve been smoking since I wear straight breeches, and I live and breathe just fine. If anything, it’s hard working that gets you in the ass; or in the back…_

    Ottis let his thoughts wander from places to places, though there weren’t to begin with. He was a simple woodcutter who lived in this area for all his life and expected to die and be buried here as well.

    He actually took comfort in that thought. He liked the place, especially here on this new settlement. Most places were just fine, but some places made his head bang so bad he saw strange things afterwards. It’s said to be some elves’ evil spell against him when he was but a tyke. His old mom, great Melitele rest her soul, tried every method told by village wise men, but none proved to be very effective. Luckily, the visions rarely happened when he was cutting wood, so they let it go. A man’s a good man, cursed or not, long as he can work to feed his family. And those were the days…… His wife, Melitele rest her soul, was sturdy as a cow, but left him first, much to the contrary belief in the neighborhood; and his little daughter Lena, skinny as a reed straw, grew up to be a pretty lass otherwise. Now she’s married to an honest young man, about to be a mother herself.

    Ottis’ proud of his daughter, but also a little worried. Her hips were too small and belly too big; he had seen women like that in his life. In some cases both the mother and the babe… He stopped thinking and sighed, spat on the floor so the bad luck won’t stick.

    The moon was too bright tonight, He noticed. Usually, a harvest moon occur after Velen, not before. And this big moon made his head spin a little with its unnaturally lively light.

    He pulled out a piece of flap used for the door in hotter summers and fixed it over the window frame.

    He had a bad dream last night, truly bad, so bad that he thought nothing could be badder. The settlement was awash with blood, even the chatty little girl from the forester family lay on the ground with her fishy eyes. They stared at him, and there was laughter, truly evil, like the fair folks…

 _Burr_. Ottis shuddered. _Must be something bad working with the moon light. A di-a-vil maybe?_

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

The old woodcutter didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but the moon was paling when he woke up. It was noisy outside. _Youngsters. A bit of cheer and alcohol and they done forgot themselves._

    He tried to ignore it and fall asleep again, but couldn’t. Something felt strange the longer he listened to the voices outside. Some sounded like muffled cries, a scream cut off halfway, and — 

    “Here, try this one. Spicy, robust, but round. Firm structure, wouldn’t you say?”

    “Too tart.”

    “This one. Fruity, with a velvety texture."       

    “Too austere. Lacks depth and body.”

     The speaker sounded like he had an accent. An accent old woodcutter summarized as “the rich accent.” Must be city folks. What would they be doing here?

    Someone grunted.

    “So try this one. It’s soft and buttery.”

    “Hmm… Bold… Ripe…Yes… But it’s a little too fat to my taste. Something less lush maybe?”

    “To the piss alley with you then! You boil! Flappy-headed fool! Find your own if you don’t appreciate my taste!”

    “Pfff. Come now, Angel, don’t be cross. We both know where the real good stuff is, don’t we? I mean, how can you even begin to compare -- hey there! Drusilla! Where are you going? Don’t think I don’t know. The child is mine! We agreed!”

    The old woodcutter was most indefinitely concerned now. They didn’t have much good stuff on the settlement here, for they moved here only three moons ago, but the cousins of the forester’s wife did bring just two bottles of Pomino supposedly straight from the cellars of Castel Ravello.

_They had better pay for it, noble lords or not. In Toussaint, the law still ruled._

    Ottis peeked out from under the dirty flap, and barely stifled a cry of horror.

    Under the moonlight, bodies lay side by side on the ground, he made out the face of the forester and his son-in-law, their eyes closed, hard to tell if they were dead or just passed out. Lena was on the top of the pile, her belly pressed down and her face was turned facing away from him.

_Lena, my little Lena…_

    When Ottis was a child, he once saw how pigs were slaughtered and dressed. It excited some of his peers, and frightened others. He was among the others.

    Right now the yard outside reminded him of the slaughterhouse in his childhood.

    The rest of the residents were cast more or less carelessly across the yard. The forester’s wife, sickly pale, lay on her back in a strange angle, had her neck snapped, blood still gushing over her shoulders, and the sipped into the ground. By the house on the westside, lay the son of the forester. The door was open, the young man lay halfway across the threshold. He did not make it in time.

    He shuddered when one of the black-haired demon, laughing like a fiend, with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, led a small girl, the youngest daughter of the forester, out of the bushes by the shack where they put all the tools. He didn’t hurry the girl, he took the time.

    He held the girl’s arm in one hand, the other hand cradled her back, like a parent would to his own child. He led the girl out by the hand until they reached the center of the yard. The little girl was shaking terribly, so he crouched down by her side, stroked her hair lovingly and crooned.

    The monsters spoke, with a clear tenor voice that’s actually pleasant to the ears. He looked bemused by the girl’s shaking body.

    “What are you afraid of, girl?” He smiled. “Oh, is it the blood of my mouth? There, is it better now?” He wiped with a lively gesture and showed the girl.

    He looked into the girl’s eyes deeply, “Don’t shake, my little darling human.”

    The old woodcutter felt a chill running down his spine.

    “You cannot imagine how precious you are.” He continued to speak, now the façade of a gentle patron was gone, now his voice resembled more like a predatory animal, but the girl had stopped shaking, she just stood there, eyes vacant.

    “Be proud of yourself, my little moth. Know that you are treasured, oh no, I say loved, yes, loved. I have you, but you are so, loved, by everyone. Isn’t that right, everyone?”

    Waves of laughter erupted from other monsters, now finished with their own victims and were listening to the “conversation” intently. There were five of them, two other males, the one on the left was very tall, dressed in embroidered doublet, and the other was more robust, dressed more like a bruiser. The other two were females, looked identically delicate and pale, distinctive from each other only by the color of their hair, one red and the other black.

    The redhead females screeched in a tone Ottis could not understand, and the monster squatting by the girl stood up so abruptly he almost knocked the girl over.

    “You know I’m not well versed in the Old Tongue, and your thick Tdet accent does no help! Speak plainly or leave me in peace! Don’t you see I’m occupied?”

    Hearing the words, the female monster screeched earlier had a change of features that plagued Ottis’ dreams until his last days.

    Snout replaced the long delicate nose, her large expressive eyes bulged out, and long sharp teeth like the blade of a scythe extruded from her now deformed mouth. The monster, now dispelling the faintest doubt of her true nature, snarled and growled, and made a foul gesture towards the child.

    She was stopped by the other female, who retained her elusive nymph-like body.

    “Let it go, Orianna. You are the guest here. Besides, you know Emiel, his foolishness can’t be helped. Let him have his drink, he becomes much more interesting after that, you will see.” She giggled, winking to the others. One of them snorted disapprovingly, but nobody spoke.

    The monster they called Emiel bowed towards the females and turned his back. He sat down casually beside the girl and cradled her onto his lap, then gently swiped her hair away from her small, soft neck.

    The old woodcutter swallowed and shut his eyes. He suddenly realized how much his bladder was troubling him this whole time.

    “Oh…” Outside, a throaty groan. “Oh, my word… Is there anything better than this! Off-dry, velvety, perfect structure. My, my…  And the intensity! Why, my head spins already!”

    “Then leave some for Dettlaff; I’ve brought a bottle. He refuses to go out for a sport, but he shan’t refuse a taste if we bring it to him, especially if it’s properly chilled and aged.”

    “Karl’s probably right. Besides, we know you, you can’t hold your blood, Emiel. I have no intention to carry you back to the cave again. If you are too drunk to fly this time, sleep over somewhere else.”

    Nothing.

    Then a small commotion outside, someone was unwilling to let go of something, the ruffling of fabrics suggested a mild struggle, then a growl bellowed.

    “Hey! No need! There’s plenty over there on the ground. One of them seemed to be gestating, it’d add a complex flavor to the taste, try that instead.”

    Ottis felt like screaming, felt like running out with his hatchet in hand, felt like striking down those monsters who dared to mock the holy creation of the Goddess, who dared to speak so casually of their blood, in their own tongue.

    He also felt like begging, pleading to those monsters, who dressed in fine silk and linen, to take him instead of his daughter.

    But he did nothing. He shut his eyes tighter and crouched into a ball underneath the blanket.

    It was so quiet except for the faint sound of occasional gurgling. So quiet. For so long.

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

Before daybreak, he heard the noise of something being dragged over and over again, then he felt a light sprung up against his window. For a second he was brimmed with joy: _he was saved! The sunlight came! The sunlight that shall turn those monsters into dust!_

    But it wasn’t sunlight. He realized what it was when he heard the crackling.

    “Now,” said the tenor voice, “we can leave.”

    “You err. There’s one more.”

    Ottis felt an icy hand had gripped his throat.

    “Blech, he’s no good. To musty. I can smell it from here.”

    “Well, Dettlaff told us to be cautious.”

    “Pff, of course he did. But I doubt this is what he meant; we shouldn’t have been here to start with if you wanted to be Dettlaff’s good little boy. But have it your way. Give me the torches.”

 _Quiet. Quiet. Make no sound_.

    Light flashed, and heat exploded through the window. The old woodcutter didn’t manage to hold back his scream, among other things. He felt a warmth gushed between his legs.

 

                                                                                                    ***

                                                                       

“Drink, my good man.”

    Young knight Tallis de Peyrac-Peyran, dressed in shiny armor 1with a bull’s head painted on his crest, passed to the old woodcutter’s another cup of water. Naturally, he offered wine first, to calm the old man’s nerve from getting out of a burning shack, but the old man shook his head so fiercely, froth foamed at his mouth.

    Tallis was a kind young man by nature, and he was indeed full of sympathy towards the local peasantry in general—he believed firmly in the five virtues of Toussaint and wished nothing but his fame as a righteous knight in return—but if he’s to blunt, the old man had to be a loony. Not sure if he had it from birth or because of whatever happened here last night.

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

Tallis de  Peyrac-Peyran was traveling with his friend Raymund Crespi, who was also newly anointed and hoped to move up rank fast by proving his valor to some baron’s daughters, for the sake of prosperity, and it was a total chance they would camp upon the small settlement in the woodlands. Left before dawn, they were heading to _Log’crevan_ , or Fox Hollow in the common speech, neither spared their horses when they saw the smoking roaring from over the woods not too far ahead.

    When they reached the place, they saw the damage on the property was none too great, only a wooden shack was burnt. Three brick houses remained untouched, and a pyre was burning in the middle of the yard, but they had no time to pay attention first-hand, as someone was clearly coughing and choking in the wooden shack.

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

The woodcutter, disheveled, face smeared with soot and pungent with the smell of urine and ash, mumbled intelligently for quite a while. They gave him water and some dry bread, then a few waybread leaves they carried in a pouch, which, everybody knew, not only soothed nerves, cured dysentery, also warded off the evil eflshots. As Ottis chewed on the leaves, the sun laid its ray over them, and the old man began to seem more alive. He thanked the knights for saving him.

    “What could I repay you with, lords? I’m but an old man, with a broken heart and a broken back, not fit for nothing.”

    The kinder, younger knight Tallis de Peyrac-Peyran sat down on a stump in front of the old man, not-with-standing the protocol.

    “My good man, I and my friend here, good Sir Raymund Crespi, are directed by stories about brigands in the area to Fox Hollow,  where we hope to gain more information and solve the problems for the locals, spread the good grace of his majesty Ludovic III, who is most just and wise. We will gladly let you follow us to Fox Hollow and see to it that you are cared for. Think not for payment, for we act in the might of our king, may he reign as long as the never-ending river Sansretour.” He looked at Raymund, who nodded his head less passionately.

    Tallis continued, “So, tell us what happened here. Was it bandits? The brutes! Not enough to commit femicide, they’ve not let go of even children! Raymund — that is, Sir Raymund Crespi — found small bones in the piles they put up in the yard. The murderers!” He shook his head in sympathy. “But fear not, good man, we shall bring them to justice. I hereby swear by the sacred olive vines!”

    Ottis nodded. He did not understand much of the speech, but he heard the words “not for payment,” and “bring them to justice;” he concluded that they were indeed good knights sent by the goddess. But he doubted even two knights in their sparkly armors could save themselves from the monsters he saw last night.

    “Nay,” said the old man. “You can’t go, noble lords, it be a sure death! I saw them with me own eyes, right there. Five of them, aye, but not human. Monsters. Monsters.” He spat on the ground again. “Men we can fight, but monsters? There’s naught we can do without holy water blessed by the Goddess straight from Ellander.”

    Raymund Crespi waved a hand impatiently and turned to his companion.

    “This old fool is clearly delirious, or maybe just another superstitious peasant. I say we hurry to Fox Hollow and finish the business. I prefer not to spend another winter serving at the outpost by _Caed Myrkvid_.”

    Tallis sighed, stood up and swiped his cuisses with his gloved hands. “I suppose you are right, my friend. Yet it is our duty to take pity and defend those who are inferior to us. Nevertheless, let’s take the old man with us to Fox Hollow. No, with me. My horse is a thoroughbred from a small country south they call Nifgaard; not much is heard about the place, but the stamina of their horses has no equal.”

    He smiled before he put on his coif back on. His off-white teeth glinted in the morning light, a roguish smile, not quite befitting knights in fairy tales, but it inspired trust nonetheless.

    “Monsters or bandits, we need food and information. Even if it is truly monsters, why, I have heard tales of who or rather what people in the North employ to deal them with. There is no shortage of work for those whose mission is to destroy evil.”


	3. Ophelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between the first full moon and the last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smol reminder of non-linear narrative in this fic:3 I put a few clues here and there that could be used to smooth the timeline out (eg. the moon phrase); but I also think it wouldn't interfere too much with the story in that sense. We all know what happened eventually...  
> There's a lot of sadness and some angst here. But rest assure, Regis comes out *alive.

Under the light of the waning moon, a shadow slid over among trees and bushes, with an unsteady landing, stopped at the edge of a lake, by a boulder covered in moss.

    The figure, looking like a giant bat, morphed in lighting speed and became a man. A very young man, slender, dark hair and dark eyes. He wore a velvet cloak over his tunic, extremely rare fabric suggested an extremely high social status, yet his boots had thick reddish crust all over, looked as if he had not changed it for some days.

    “Appearances,” the man murmured to his reflection in the lake. “Appearances, they deceive.” The murmur became a whisper. Then it became quiet all around. Only the songs of crickets and cicadas, occasionally joined by a few sleepy chirps from the orioles.   

 _The “symphony of nature”._ He thought. _For me, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. For me and me alone. Now nobody is to tell me how I drink too much and behave like a fool or demand me to give her what she wants._

_Peace, and quiet. How wonderful._

    Regis sat down on the wet grass, heavy with dew and sparkling in the faint moonlight.  He sat down, careful not to lose his balance. The myriad of scents assaulted his nose, among them, wolfsbane, lupine and fox glove hit home the strongest. Intoxicating, even. He felt lightheaded all of a sudden. But of course, he was tipsy still, recovering from the hangover two nights ago. 

    Definitely not because she had liked those flowers.

    They all were toxic in various degrees, with wolfsbane the most lethal; but of course barely harmful to them. ' _It's so wonderful, isn't it?'_   He remembered she said, dancing around; ' _Those flowers protected our privacy from humans, like this place is made for us!_ '  _Her eyes were like the lake......_

    He had always liked water. For one, dispelling the delusion some of his victims had about how vampires cannot cross water was always an entertainment; secondly, well, secondly…

    There was a time when he had learned, not without help from someone, to like his own reflection, which can only be found on natural reflective surfaces.

    Well. Such was a time.

    When his nose no longer reminded him of the beak of predatory birds, his tall and lean frame stopped making him feel lanky and awkward, even his hair became tolerably unruly. The melodious voice would chastise away his self-doubt and his fear, would remind him of—

    Something he believed he could never have. But what would it have mattered? To have, only to lose it.

    He looked down at himself looking up from the water.

 _How hideous I look_. He thought. _How hideous are the blood streaks drying by my mouth, on my chin, how hideous my bloodshot eyes glare. No wonder she doesn’t want to be with me. I wouldn’t want to be with myself._

_I will follow her. I will lay myself in front of her door. I will beg. I will do everything. Just to try again._

_But I already tried, haven’t I? This morning, by the shadows of her cave. I saw her eyes, emanating cold, telling me that she refuses to recognize me. Like she didn’t even know me._

    “You fool.” He spoke to himself. In the lake, he grinned. Like a mad thing, he laughed so hard that his voice cracked. But maybe not only his voice cracked.

    The grin quickly turned into an ugly grimace. A drizzle rained down on the water, ripples shattered his reflection. He could no longer see beyond the fog in his eyes.

 

                                                                                                            ***

 

    When the lake lay once without ripples like a dark amethyst in the night, Regis left it to the wind to dry his face.

 

                                                                                                            ***

    In the sky, the moon has already passed the peak and was now drooping over. Another day would start soon. For Regis, maybe too soon. He was not yet ready to leave the comfort disguise of night. The harsh sun rays would make everything all too real.

    He leaned against the boulder, feeling its coolness seeping through his cloak and his doublet. He took them off and only then did he noticed how much blood he had gotten on his doublet. The front was soaked, now dried up, the stained became a huge ugly wound on his chest, soiling the elegant white ruffles. He didn’t even sigh. He laid it with his cloak by the boulder.

    He thought the direct contact of his skin to the soothing night breeze would make him feel better. It didn’t.

    Above him, orioles continued to sing.

_The damned orioles. Conceited mockers._

    He thought about throwing a stone to the tree, or simply growl at the birds to make them go away, but ultimately didn’t move.

_Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s me that’s conceited. And a mockery of normality._

_Like this lake in front of me? Someone put it there a long time ago—probably  elves—it looks too deliberate to be a natural lagoon. Everything was just… too painfully perfect. Too painfully static. A river, small or big, moves with a direction, onwards, to its destiny. One day, they will enter the union of the might of ocean. But what of this lake_?

     He pondered, his hand whisked over the surface of the lake, careful not to cause any wrinkle. It’s dark, but he could see through the gigantic opaque gemstone, no fish darting in between the flowing ribbon weeds and hornworts, no sign of river crabs or any amphibians.

_So what lives there? In the sterile pond? Leeches?_

    He snorted at the silly parallel.

    “But despite everything,” he murmured, to himself, or maybe not even realizing he was speaking. “Despite everything, I, love this place. The little artificial moonlit pond. Despite its artificiality, it, wanted to be appreciated; loved.”

_And the moss-covered stone slabs, on which you danced when you were happy. The orioles, speckled black and gold, debauchery and virtue. The good and the bad. The symphony of the nature, like you said, it’s beautiful._

_And how beautiful everything looks at this moment, how beautiful the world continues to exist._ He thought with a strange clarity. _Despite the fact that everything has ended for me._

 

                                                                                                            ***

 

The moon over the southern sky had become a pale mirage, barely visible against the musky sky. Now the lake in front of him mirrored eyes he was familiar with. Eyes he had grown to love so much that it hurt.

    Her eyes. Aquamarine eyes, blue like the sky of a summer day in Toussaint, in which love danced, joy cheered, life exuberated. And later, from which disappointment and resentment shot out like daggers.

 _It is time to end this. Before sunrise_.

    The beautiful lake looked at him, gentle and inviting.

 _What would happen?_ He wondered.

_I suppose I will have to try it to find out. Yes. I have to. There is simply no other way._

    He took off his boots, encrusted with blood and mud, taking time to undo the buckles meticulously, carefully balancing himself not to fall. He was still a bit under the influence.

_Now, to step in._

    The water opened up as much as needed to accommodate him, and he moved in in one go. Then it closed around him, chilling but alleviating.

 

                                                                                                            ***

 

He drew in the first breath —

    Cold, cold, and cold. He felt the weeds dancing around him, caressed his face. Or was it his own hair, now free of gravity?

    The second breath —

    He was euphoric. Sinking in an incredible lightness, the darkness enveloped him. It was tender and soothing. Somewhere came some muffled syllabus of the golden oriole’s song.

    The third —

    He never got to know what the third breath would bring him. Fingers — talons snatched him out from the lake and threw him on the grass, he panted, with a stupid smile on his face.

 

                                                                                                            *** 

 

    Dettlaff?

    Yes, fool.

    How…?

    I heard.

    Then, why?!

    My father died. Yesterday. I cannot lose another family.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done a bit of research on vampires' bodily functions in general across different vamp universes and with the limited + contradicting information we have about vampires in the Witcher universe (between books & games & games among themselves), I decided to just do a few headcanons, such as they **can** drown, they breathe (they speak & smell so) but can hold their breath much longer and/or need less oxygen than humans, so drowning would take quite some time.  
> A side discussion? I also believe Witcher vampires can and do die, naturally or otherwise, only that they live so long it'd seem like an eternity for humans. I saw from a source that says they live more than twice as long as Aen Seihde elves, which according to said source live over 300 yrs, only I can't find the source now to link it -_-  
> As I was talking to [Daevlin ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daevlin/pseuds/Daevlin) about vamp lifespan in Witcher universe, Daevlin mentioned that there was outliner like the Unseen Elder. If the Conjunction happened in 230 BC that means he was over 1500 yrs old in B&W. And with elves there was Auberon living for over 600 yrs. So there seems to be quite some room to work around. Although my theory for the Unseen's age is related to his recluse lifestyle, that sunlight/ active during daytime and living outside of their usual habitats would cause some damage to their health as hinted in the books. If going with that then Poor Regis... Maybe also explains his appearance (alongside with his "deaths"?


End file.
